


dodging bullets on the go

by ketabat



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF Billy Hargrove, Biker Billy Hargrove, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Blackmail, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25402093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketabat/pseuds/ketabat
Summary: And. Well. Billy’s defiant. Always has been. His doctors, Dr. Sam Owens included had told him as much after he woke from his coma 7 months post Starcourt’s events. Said there was no way in hell anyone else could’ve survived what he had, no way in hell anyone could’ve broken from the Mindflayer’s strings the way he had. Said he cheated death.or, biker billy. that's all.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Other(s), Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 9
Kudos: 119





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cupidacre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidacre/gifts).



> miah: biker billy  
> me: ur absolutely right

“So what? You’re just going to _let it happen?”_ Billy shouts. He’s storming after Greg, trying to keep pace with him as he pulls his jacket on. “Since when do we even back down? This is your neck of the woods, Greg. You can’t just let them take–”  
  
Greg stops and turns around, almost has Billy crashing into him. “Listen, boy, it’s out of my hands, and it’s out of yours,” his hand clasps on Billy’s shoulder, smile gentle despite the anger whetting his worn-out features. “If I could do anything about it, you know I would.”  
  
Billy’s lips purse, but not before curling aggrievedly. Greg squeeze his shoulder.  
  
“Where do we go?” Billy asks, voice barely an octave above a rasp. “You know I can’t go far. I’m being watched and–”  
  
“And you’re one of us _,”_ Greg cuts in, makes Billy glance away, jaw clenched. He blinks away the blur in his vision. “We take to Munster. I know people.”  
  
Billy nods. “Ok.”  
  
Greg pats the shaved side of Billy’s head kindly and brushes past him.  
  
And. Well. Billy’s defiant. Always has been. His doctors, Dr. Sam Owens included had told him as much after he woke from his coma 7 months post Starcourt’s events. Said there was no way in hell anyone else could’ve survived what he had, no way in hell anyone could’ve broken from the Mindflayer’s strings the way he had. Said he cheated death.   
  
He was moved to Bloomington after his recovery, not too far so he’s kept under surveillance. He’d met Greg when he went to get his scars veiled with tattoos. He explained his situation, leaving out the supernatural. _I was involved in the Starcourt fires. Moved here to start over. Don’t have anyone but I’m gettin’ through. Workin’ down at the gas station._  
  
Greg was nicer to Billy than anyone’s ever been. He introduced him to all his friends. He offered him the roof above their heads and the food on their table. Said they needed a mechanic. Billy was good with machinery even if it was harder operating on motorcycles. And he slowly and steadily got closer, opened up, healed. Greg’s wife was like the mom he never had. She ruffled his hair and flexed her tattoos at him when he groused about the stupid skull he’d gotten in the summer of ‘85. The whole group was kinder to him than he deserved. Billy found a family in them.  
  
It’s been three years and now some piece of shit businessman wants to gentrify their neighborhood, their _home, Billy’s_ home. Fucking oust them and throw them to the exurbs like shit.  
  
And Billy’s _defiant._ So, he sneaks his way into Greg’s room while he’s out and looks through his papers until he finds exactly _who_ wants to displace them.

...

Billy hates Hawkins. It’s a fucking shit hole and he’d have appreciated living out the rest of his days not seeing it again. But here he is, sitting astride his motorcycle outside the Harringtons’ residence. There’s about a dozen cars parked outside and Billy gets the itch to vandalize each and every one of them. But he doesn’t want to cause anything. He takes a breath, huffs it out and pulls his helmet off. He dismounts his bike and sets the helmet down on the seat of it.  
  
He doesn’t bother with knocking. Swings the door open and steps into a formal gathering, an ostentatious display of John Harrington’s wealth. It grates on Billy, gives him the same itch to vandalize, except he wants to claw at someone’s face, not car. He strides in, ignoring the so-call furtive glances his way. Fixing on a small smile, he brushes a hand over a woman’s shoulder, instantly grabbing her attention. “Hey,” he says, and if he flutters his eyelashes to make her blush, well. It isn’t a _crime._ ”Is John Harrington here, ma’am?”  
  
“Oh! Yes,” she twirls a little too theatrically, making her long auburn hair brush his cheek. Then she rests a hand on his bicep as she magnetizes her pointer finger in the direction of a pair standing near a statue of some Greek deity. “There he is.”  
  
Billy’s smile gains width as he offers her his thanks, makes her cherry lips pull taut over her pearly teeth. He struts over to the two men, interjects their conversation with a polite, “Which one of you gentlemen is John Harrington?”  
  
The younger between the two lifts a brow, looking Billy over with the condescending eyes of a bigot. Billy thinks he’s got his answer. “Who’s asking?”  
  
“Me,” Billy replies. “Let’s talk.”  
  
“Excuse me, _kid_ –”  
  
“Don’t do that,” Billy shakes his head, waving a hand in a blasé manner that says _spare me._ ”I’m gonna talk if you like it or not. I’m being _kind_ enough to give you a choice in whether it happens in private or in front of this respectable man here,” he doesn’t spare the _respectable man_ a glance as he speaks.  
  
It feels good to have _some_ control over a man of power. Because a second later, John excuses himself and gestures for Billy to follow him.   
  
They enter his office. John sits down behind his desk and pulls open a box of cigars. Billy shakes his head no when he offers him one. “What do you want?”  
  
Billy psyches himself up for what he’s about to say. “My name’s Billy Hargrove,” he says. “I was involved in eighty five’s _fires.”_ Billy feels like John _knows_ they weren't fires. John’s shift in expression solidifies that fact.   
  
“Ok.”  
  
“After my recovery, I was moved to Bloomington,” Billy continues, “Same place you’re plannin’ to tear down.”  
  
John hums around his cigar and takes a drag, blows the smoke out until Billy can’t even see his face. _“Improve,”_ he corrects with practiced professionalism. He props his cigar in the crystalline ashtray next to him. “Do you enjoy boring me with your autobiography?”  
  
Billy feels anger simmer hot under his skin. He swallows thickly, rubbing ringed fingers over the tattoo on the back of his hand, traces each tooth in the lion’s open mouth with his thumb to calm himself down. “I’m asking you to revisit your decision.”  
  
“It’s a little too late for that,” John answers absently, doesn’t even show an ounce of remorse as he leafs through documents. “The remodelling should be underway by the end of this week.”  
  
“And where the fuck do I _go?”_ Billy snaps, having come to the end of his rope. “I’ve settled down. You can’t–”  
  
“But I can,” John interrupts, smile dripping honeyed venom. Billy opens his mouth to object. “You can stop caviling now. Thank you for your time, Mr. Hargrove.”  
  
“Ok,” Billy nods, tonguing the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, thanks.” He gets up and walks over to the door, looking around the office to later on vandalize the fuck out of it. Pauses. “John Harrington,” he breathes under his breath. Remembers pussyfooting through Dr. Owens’ office in search of entertainment. In search of his mental diagnosis. Remembers coming across the name _John Wayne Harrington_.  
  
He huffs a laugh, shakes his head lightly before spinning on the heels of his boots. “John Wayne Harrington,” he repeats loudly. Parades back to where he was sitting and plops down again. _Guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way._ “How about this. Stay out of my neighborhood.”  
  
John Harrington’s brows rise, mockery sunk deep in his forehead lines. “Or _what?”_ he challenges.  
  
“I _hate_ to be the one to put you in your place, sir,” Billy sounds contrite, almost sincere. He breathesa laugh a moment later. His façade cracks and he throws his head back with a laugh. “Who am I kidding? I _love it_. Fuckin’ get off on it.”  
  
Mr. Harrington’s glare hardens. “Listen, boy,” he says between tightly clenched teeth. “I don’t know who you think you are—”  
  
“I’m gonna cut this short,” Billy interrupts. “If I see a single construction worker _anywhere_ near my home, your little _funds_ to the lab won’t be a private affair anymore.”  
  
“What _lab_?” Mr. Harrington spits back.  
  
Billy has to hand it to him, he’s one hell of an actor. “Oh, you know what lab,” he smirks, reclining in his seat and lifting his feet to prop them on John Harrington’s perfectly polished ebony desk, the fucking incarnation of hubris. “What do you think Hopper would do knowing you were sponsoring the experiments conducted on his daughter?” There’s a pause where he kisses his teeth, scowling thoughtfully. “Better yet, what would _Martin Brenner_ do knowing you know _everything_ that went on there and you’re alive and kickin’? That you could testify against him at court?”  
  
John swallows. “How–”  
  
“No, no,” Billy tuts his tongue. “No. The only words I wanna hear coming out of that mouth of yours is _your wish is my command,”_ he grins, “or something in the same vein.”  
  
Said mouth turns dry as John stares daggers at Billy. “Do you _know_ who you’re–”  
  
“Shh,” Billy talks over him. Tuts his tongue twice. “None of that.”  
  
He sees John’s throat bob, powerless and _frightened._ It’s exhilarating.  
  
“Alright,” John says, tight-lipped. “Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
“ _That’s_ what I’m talkin’ about,” Billy croons. “Great to know we’re on the same wavelength, sir.”  
  
John looks like he’s holding back from baring his teeth like an undomesticated dog.  
  
“Could you pass me those documents?” Billy gestures for the papers John had been thumbing through earlier.  
  
John dawdles doing as told. Watches as Billy nods, impressed, as his eyes skim over the words. Watches the way he laughs at certain parts like he’s reading some satirical magazine. He watches Billy reach into the breast pocket of his open shirt with black-chipped nails and pull out a zippo. Watches him flick it open, burn the documents to nothing.  
  
Then Billy stands up and brushes the ashes off his lap and to the clean carpeted floor of Harrington’s office. “Was an honor doing business with you, Mr. Harrington,” he says. “Hope there won’t be any complications.”  
  
John drives him out the office with a death glare.

...

The first inhalation of smoke is a welcome breath of fresh air. He’s still outside, leaning back against his motorcycle as he cools down.  
  
It was hard – harder than he’d expected considering he hadn’t touched base with the meaner side of him since he was turned into a human colander by the mindfucker in summer of ‘85.  
  
He hasn’t smoked in a while either.  
  
Tilting his head back, he breathes out a cloud of smoke, eyes shutting under the calmative effect it has on him. He flicks his cigarette to the floor four drags in and twists the toe of his boot into it.  
  
Considers visiting Max. Considers striding into the station just to see the look on Hopper’s face before he says, ‘what have you done _now,_ kid?’. Considers seeing El, thanking her. Shelves all those considerations away before he can dwell on them for too long, before nostalgia can find a rupture to seep through.  
  
He grabs his helmet and straddles his bike. Lifts it to his head as he gives the villa a cursory look.  
  
His blues catch brown and he stops breathing. Blue and brown. Opposite poles. Magnetic. Moored. Fucking _anchored._  
  
Steve Harrington.  
  
He’s standing at a window. White shirt tucked into black pants. Tie undone around his neck. One of his hands in his pocket and the other holding a half empty glass of red wine. It feels more electric than the first time Billy’d lain eyes on him, and the second, and the third, and the fucking forth.  
  
Because now. Now Steve’s finally looking back.  
  
Billy can see him map out his existence, pinpoint his changes since their eyes last met. The ring in his nose and the faded paint on his nails and the drawings sketched into his skin and smeared into his scars.  
  
Billy’s hands drop, flex on the helmet as he watches Steve watch. Waits. Swelters in his own longing until Steve’s eyes lock on his again.  
  
And the homesickness Billy’s been fighting back tears him open and forces itself inside, finds a home in the red rivulets inside his veins and in every beat of his heart.  
  
His lips part for breath. Steve smiles. Lifts his drink like he’s saying _cheers._  
  
Billy looks at him for a moment longer, commits him to memory. Just like this. Looking at _him._ Smiling at _him._  
  
He doesn’t smile back. Knows if he allows his feelings a little more control, they’d go rampant.  
  
Instead, he pulls his helmet on and roars his engine to life. Drives back home.


	2. Chapter 2

“You’re up!”  
  
Billy grumbles into his cereal, sparing Jo a half-hearted smile. “Morning.”  
  
She places her hands on his shoulders and digs her thumbs into the stiffness there. “Don’t think I didn’t see you take off in the wee hours of the morning, young man.”  
  
Billy’s response is another grumble. She slides her hands off his shoulders and slips into the seat next to his, keeping her gaze expectant until he shifts under the unbidden attention. “Stop lookin’ at me,” he mutters. “And don’t tell Greg I left; he’ll piece shit together.”  
  
“Piece _what_ together?” she challenges.  
  
Makes Billy heave a sigh from his nostrils. “I went to John Harrington’s house last night.”  
  
“You _what?”_ Jo’s voice is usually soft and even, so hearing her raising it has Billy flinching, lifting his shoulders until they’re nearly touching his ears. “Billy, what did you do?” she asks, appreciably less loud.  
  
Billy tongues the inside of his cheek, spooning the milk out of the bowl and spilling it back inside as a means of distraction. “I threatened him.”  
  
“You–”  
  
“Before you start yellin’ at me, it _worked._ I burnt all the documents and. Yeah.”  
  
Jo lifts a drawn-on brow, smile small. She ducks her head. “I’m not telling Greg. That man would react like a bear with a sore head,” she says amusedly. “Now why the long face?”  
  
Jo knows him like she knows the back of her hand. Billy loves her. Knows she’d never in a million years judge him. He sits back, folding his arms over his chest. “I saw someone,” he mumbles. “John’s son. He’s a– friend. And by _friend_ , I mean _enemy_.”  
  
“Very fine line between the two,” Jo interjects amiably.  
  
A laugh leaves Billy’s nostrils. “Yeah. No. Definitely enemies,” he rubs at his two-day old stubble. “Was just weird. Seeing him after all these years.”  
  
“Did you speak to him?”  
  
“No!” Billy exclaims, like it’s an _accusation_ he’s trying to rebut.   
  
“Did you _want_ to?”  
  
Billy considers this, scratches at the shaved part of his head with a shrug. “Just wish I’d cleared shit between us, y’know?” he rises to his feet and walks to the sink to wash his bowl. “I was a real dick back then, too angry. With…” he trails off. “Everything. It doesn’t matter.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“I mean, Greg would kill me if he knew I was there last night,” Billy rambles on. “Imagine if I go again just to apologize to the dude’s son,” he chuckles, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.  
  
“Imagine,” Jo echoes and presses her smirk to the lip of her can.   
  
Billy draws his bottom lip into his mouth, peels the chaps off with his teeth. He looks over his shoulder at her. She smiles. Nods her head to the side.  
  
It’s all the incentive Billy needs, really.

…

“Hey, Flo.”  
  
Florence looks up from the apple she’s peeling and. Stares. Eyes wide and hands stilling on the green apple. The accusation in her tone when she says, “You,” has Billy laughing.  
  
“Me,” He echoes, hands lodged on both doorjambs as he sways forward. “Long time no see. Good to know age isn’t taking a toll on your memory, ma’am.”  
  
“You’re alive.”  
  
“And kickin’,” Billy grins wide and toothy. “Chief here?”  
  
“He’s…In his office,” Florence replies quietly. She’s always been loud and unafraid in calling Billy out whenever he’s at the station. It’s good to see the reflection of the past few years he’d used to readjust himself in her sudden hesitation.   
  
“Thanks,” Billy ambles over to Hopper’s office, swinging his keyring around his finger. He peeks inside. “Knock knock.”

Hopper glances up briefly. “I’m busy,” he muffles around his donut, scribbling away for a few more seconds before going stock-still and looking back up. “…Hargrove?”  
  
“Chief,” Billy greets with a half-hearted salute. Jim’s eyes catch on the letters daubed on each one of Billy’s scarred up fingers. “Sorry, can’t stay long. Jus’ need an address. Steve Harrington?”  
  
There’s a beat of silence before Hopper manages to scrape together enough brain cells to speak. “Last time you were in my town, I was believed to be dead,” he goes for casual as he sucks the icing off his fingers. “No _‘congratulations on escaping Russia, chief’?”_  
  
“Last time _I_ was in your town, I _was_ dead,” Billy retorts. “No _‘congratulations on stayin’ in one piece and gettin’ the fuck outta this pigsty, kid’?”_  
  
“Touché,” Hopper chuckles. He throws himself back in his seat. “What do you want from Steve?”  
  
“Gotta bury the hatchet,” Billy answers reflexively. Too fast. So fast it makes Hopper smirk. “Don’t gimme that look. I saved your daughter. You owe me one.”  
  
“None of my business,” Hopper lifts his hands in defense. “He’s living down on Dearborn Street.”  
  
Billy huffs a laugh. “Loch Nora no longer ticklin’ his fancy or Daddy Harrington cut him off?”  
  
Hopper shrugs. “You’re gonna have to ask him that,” he props a cigarette between his lips.  
  
Billy hums a noncommittal hum before pushing himself off the doorjamb. “Those’ll kill you one day,” he gestures for the cig.  
  
“Right back at you.”  
  
Billy laughs, shaking his head lightly. “Trust me, I’m _counting on it.”_  
  
Hopper laughs too, cupping the cigarette to light it as Billy turns to leave.  
  
“Hargrove?”  
  
“Hm?” Billy half spins to look at him.  
  
“Was good seeing you,” Hopper answers. “Thought you’d be three sheets to the wind or behind bars. Good to know you sorted your shit out.”  
  
Billy smiles. Turns his back to him. Leaves.

…

Unease is an unexplored emotion for Billy.  
  
He’s been nervous before. Felt uneasy in plenty of situations. Waking up alone in the hospital after midnight. Leaving the hospital. Hearing about Neil's verdict after Susan and Max sued him. Leaving Hawkins. Trying to live alone. Riding a motorcycle for the first time. Calling Jo _ma_ that _one time._  
  
But this is _different_.  
  
This is the type of unease he should’ve felt in 5th grade when Cindy Moore asked him if he wanted to see her underwear. The type he should’ve felt when Andrea Watson told him she wants to go with him to the school dance in middle school. It’s the type he should’ve felt when Tina and Vicki went down on him at the same time on his second day at Hawkins High.  
  
It’s the type of unease he feels whenever he allows himself to think of Steve. To think of _boys._  
  
But he’s _Billy._ And he’s going to face this the way he faces off with every other unmanageable thing. _Head-on._  
  
He rings the bell once. Then twice. Then another three times before he’s rapping his knuckles against the deep brown of Steve’s front door.  
  
“Alright, alright! I’m coming. _Jesus!”_  
  
There’s bare-footed padding, a huff, a click. Then.  
  
Steve.  
  
Right there. Sleep-rumpled and. Beautiful.  
  
And so close. He’d been so far away last night. Too far. Tantalizingly _far.  
  
_ Steve takes a step back, his grip on the edge of his door going white-knuckle tight. He blinks owlishly, a muscle in his jaw moving under smooth skin.   
  
It’s devastating. How close he is. All Billy has to do is lift his hand. There’s a lock of hair hanging loose down Steve’s forehead. All Billy has to do is reach up. It’s crippling, how close he is and how far he feels. Out of reach. _Forbidden fucking fruit._  
  
“Billy,” Steve breathes.  
  
 _Head-on. Head-on. Head-on._  
  
“Miss me?” Billy forces out, fixing on a smirk that he licks over slowly.  
  
Steve’s eyes flicker over his features the same way they had last night. “You—what are you— Did something happen or…” he gives up on trying to form a full sentence. He opens the door wider. “Come in.”  
  
Billy feels Steve’s eyes on him as he wanders into the living room.  
  
“I’m gonna change. Um. Make yourself at home. Beer in the fridge.”  
  
Billy doesn’t even grant him a glance as he skims his eyes over framed photos. There’s Harrington. And his parents that Billy’s never seen. There’s Henderson and Sinclair. _Hopper. Joyce._ Steve’s found family. It’s—nice.  
  
Max’s in one of them. He can’t help but lift it for a better look, smirk a little at how short she’d cut her hair.  
  
“She wanted a mullet.”  
  
Billy looks over his shoulder. Then clears his throat and puts the frame down.  
  
“She mourned you really bad, Hargrove.”  
  
Billy swallows.  
  
“Was held back a year. Wore all your band tees. She owns your camaro.”  
  
A chuckle bubbles up in Billy’s throat. “Bitch always wanted my band tees.”  
  
“Does she know?” Steve breathes. He’s standing in the doorway, like a _stranger,_ like he isn’t standing in his own fucking house. “Does she know you’re alive?”  
  
“She’ll get word,” Billy replies offhandedly. “I’m not here for that.”  
  
Steve lifts his head, jutting his chin out to put up an unshakeable front that he isn’t _scared_. “Why are you here?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Billy says simply. Makes the _unshakeable_ front quiver and fall faster than Steve’s plastered it on. “For everything.”  
  
Steve might think Billy has no idea what he’s doing when he lifts his hand and touches his hairline. But he does. _Fuck_ , does he know. He doesn’t comment though. Just continues before he backs down. “I was real fucked up back then,” he shrugs. “Anger issues and, Neil and, my mom. It clustered and made me do shit I regret now.”  
  
“It was a long time ago,” Steve pinches his nose and lifts a shoulder carelessly. “I’ve had worse,” he chuckles, shaking his head like whatever he’s remembering is a fond memory. “Ever been tortured by Russians?”  
  
Billy squints an eye, plays _contemplative,_ then shakes his head slowly, like he’s not sure. “Mm. Can’t say I have,” he muses after a tut of his tongue. “You ever been ruptured to death by an interdimensional creature?”  
  
“We’re so cool,” Steve laughs. He leans against the doorjamb and rests his head on it. “So, what? You rode all the way here to apologize for pounding me into the floorboards?”  
  
Billy scoffs, looking away. “Don’t put it like that,” he licks over his lips. “You doin’ okay? I like the,” he waves a hand in a circle at the interior. “Thing you have goin’ on here.”  
  
“Thanks,” Steve nodded, looking around. “Saved up for it and had the kids repaint and stuff.”  
  
“You still hangin’ out with them?”  
  
“Mhm,” Steve’s eyes land on him again. “They’re leaving soon.”  
  
“All of them?”  
  
“Max is,” Steve answers, reading right between the lines. “Susan remarried. Has another kid so she won’t be alone.”  
  
Billy nods. Once. Can’t do more than that because his biker boots suddenly look good to him.  
  
“Are you staying?”  
  
“No,” Billy shakes his head. The only thing he’s sure of right now. “Straight back to Bloomington.”  
  
Steve’s lips twitch into a barely-there smile. “Anyone waiting for you?”  
  
Billy lets himself. Just for a second. Wonder if Steve’s… like him. If there’s any chance at all he’s asking out of personal curiosity and not concern. Goodness of heart. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’m…Livin’ with a group of people. Work for them. They’re— good. Why?”  
  
Steve hums, vague, eyes fixed on the wall behind Billy.  
  
“Why?” Billy doesn’t want to seem pushy, but. He takes a step, tilts his head to catch Steve’s eye.  
  
“Just wondering,” Steve admits, lifting his shoulder.  
  
“Why?” Billy nags. He just, wants to know. He deserves to. He spent half a year pining for Steve and another two years trying to get his face out of his head every fucking time his hand creeps under the covers.  
  
Steve’s jaw clenches. “Just—” another shrug, “Thought maybe. If you didn’t have anyone, that you could stay,” there a pause where Steve’s lips stay parted and his eyes dart away, like he’s not sure he should, finish that thought. “That I could, you know. Convince you to stay.”  
  
Billy’s shoulders sag, breath trembling out of him. “I blackmailed your dad yesterday.”  
  
Steve looks caught off guard by the sudden change of subject. He pushes off the doorjamb, eyes wide. “What?”  
  
“I blackmailed—”  
  
“I heard you the first time around,” Steve interrupts, voice going a note higher. “Why the hell would you do that?”  
  
“Why? You on good terms with him?” Billy lifts a brow, poses the question like it’s a joke.  
  
“He’s my _dad._ Yeah, I’m on good terms with him,” Steve snipes back. “Doesn’t mean if—” he cuts himself short with a vague gesture of his hand before he combs his fingers through his hair.  
  
It makes Billy smirk. “Yeah? You gonna finish that sentence, sweetheart?” he takes another step, presses his tongue to his canine tooth teasingly. “Doesn’t mean if I had a dad who’d gimme a good fucking hiding as a sport that all dads are like that?” he offers, chases Steve’s gaze. “That it?”  
  
“That’s not—” Steve huffs, rubbing at his jaw. “Not what I meant.”  
  
Billy drops it. He’s not here for more trouble with Steve. He tongues the inside of his cheek, then sucks his teeth. “You know he was funding the lab?” he asks.  
  
“He _what?_ ”  
  
Billy walks over, stopping when he’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Steve. “Ask him about a Martin Brenner, Harrington. Then pick sides.”


End file.
